


Ever. After. All

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Lost Love, Male-Female Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She hates Kyra Blaine, with her unclouded eyes and her easy, open affection for him. Beautiful and . . . odd. Strange and offbeat in ways that remind Kate too much of him. She hates that she can picture it. How well they must have fit together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Two-shot insert set just before the final scene of "A Rose Forever After" (2 x 12)
> 
> * * *

She hates this woman a little bit. More than a little bit.

She hates Kyra Blaine, with her unclouded eyes and her easy, open affection for him. Beautiful and . . . odd. Strange and offbeat in ways that remind Kate too much of him. She hates that she can picture it. How well they must have fit together.

Her fingers sweep over the length of the desk drawer. She thinks of the grainy surveillance photo inside and hates that she doesn't have to picture it. How at home she is in his arms. What he looks like in love.

She watches out of the corner of her eye, then stares full on, because it's not like they're inclined to notice. Right now, there's no one in the world but the two of them. The warmth between them radiates through the glass. The intensity of history, and she hates that, too.

Most of all, she hates that she's watching openly, and it still manages to startle her somehow. The way Kyra rises quickly and kisses his cheek. The swing of the door and clatter of blinds and the way she's suddenly there at the corner of her desk.

Kate hates the knowing look she's not ready for, and the smile that's mostly kind. A little regretful.

"He's all yours."

There's just a trace of steel in it. Something rises inside Kate. Triumph. Satisfaction.

Kyra Blaine—Kyra Soon-to-be-Murphy—hates Kate Beckett a little, too.

* * *

She's gone. Kyra's long gone before she thinks to deny it. Before that swell of _something_ recedes, and she remembers the rules. It hits her what she _ought_ to have done. How she should have feigned surprise and sputtered that he's _not_ all hers _._ He's not _any_ hers, and _they're_ not . . .

But Kyra is long gone before she realizes she ought to have said it's not like that at all.

She spins on her chair, fired up and ready to take it out on him. To make some kind of better-late-than-never denial by demanding to know what the hell he could have possibly said to his ex that she'd leave with a parting shot like that.

_He's all yours._

It washes out of her, though. The burning embarrassment and all that fight exit on a single breath as her gaze falls on him.

He's where Kyra left him in more ways than one. He's still leaning back in the chair with his phone dangling between his fingers and his eyes taking in some unseen, far-off moment. But it's more than just that. More than just nostalgia and defeat leaving him fixed in place.

He's wounded and stripped down. He looks younger and older at the same time. She sees him struggling, even now, to pull the armor back in place. She sees him curl in on himself, reassembling the version of Richard Castle she hasn't seen in a while. A long while.

She hates Kyra a little more, because it's easier that way.

It's easier to pretend that the heaviness in her chest and is nothing more than casual sympathy. That this isn't how they are together. How they've come to be. Guarded and snappish. Inching toward each other one minute and running back to their corners the next. It's easier to tell herself that she'd never have seen this side of him if it weren't for Kyra. She'd never have ached to see his loss or wondered what his heart might have been like unscathed.

It's easier for all kinds of reasons, and she goes with it. She lets everything she hates about this carry her to the doorway and curl her fingers around the frame. She lets it call up words before she can think better of them. Before she can think at all.

"Castle. Come on."

He looks up, surprised to find her there. He looks around like the whole place is unfamiliar. Like she certainly is, and that hurts far more than she'd like.

"Where?" he asks, and it's . . . subdued. _Stripped down,_ she thinks again. There's no exaggerated wariness or sugar-rush enthusiasm. There's nothing in it of the things he usually plays at in moments like this when everything seems too real.

She shrugs. She doesn't really have a plan, and she wonders if she needs one. If they do, or if this is already a work in progress. If they are. She wonders what it means that Kyra hates her a little, too.

"Out," she says finally. It's a challenge. It's prophecy.

She turns back to her desk to excavate her bag from the bottom drawer. She reaches for her coat. For his, and she only just manages to notch down the smile that's tugging at her when she turns and he's right there, following along.

"Out." He repeats it like he's testing out the word. He gives her a frank, curious look as he winds the scarf around his neck and ducks into his coat. "Out."

* * *

Time and space catch up with her right outside the precinct. Reality. How they are and how she ought to behave. The rules catch up with her. She falters.

"Do you . . . ?" She looks left. She looks right, but she's at a loss. She doesn't know what kind of occasion this is. She misses that feeling of _easier,_ far off now. That feeling of certainty is long gone and she misses it. She looks to him.

His head is tipped back. He's scanning the rooftops. She thinks about the sky, high over Manhattan, sharp and cold and studded with lights. She blushes as she pictures the kiss again. The longing and how easily they drifted together. She blushes and thinks that the safest thing is to leave him be.

It's an option. A safe one. She could tell him to go home it might be all for the best. A clap on the shoulder like they're friends. It might be for the best to end things here with an awkward _call if you need to._

But he won't. He'd never, and it makes her unbearably sad in the moment, because it's not just her. There's no one he'd call.

A cab races by. Their faces are washed out with bright, gritty light and she knows he won't. It's some kind of tipping point, and she hates it. The certainty that he _does_ need her. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and he won't ask. Not if they leave this here.

She opens her mouth to say it. To say _something_ , though she doesn't know if it's a beginning, an end, or this strange in between they've occupied for a while now.

She opens her mouth, but his chin drops toward her, just then. He gives her a wry, level look, and she's nothing but a hitch of nervous breath.

"Somewhere . . . on the ground," he says.

She laughs. Frigid air in and out. A cloudburst of breath between them. He smiles a little—really smiles—for the first time in hours. Days, maybe. Her hands fall to her sides. She uncurls herself and turns. She lets her shoulder knock into his.

"On the ground," she scoffs. "I can do better than that."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She looks around. She thinks about what draws her. Quiet. It's mostly just that. The low murmur of a TV turned way down, and soft lights. The way the brick rattles and the bottles make music on the shelves when the subway trains rumble nearby. She likes the way the place is never quite empty and the now-and-then hum of words offered to no one in particular. She likes all of that, but he's eager. Expecting something, and she tips over into uncertainty again"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two-shot insert set just before the final scene of "A Rose Forever After" (2 x 12)

* * *

"Underground."

He stands tall and gives an approving nod to the waist-level sign and the dingy stairs leading below street level. It's a little hale and hearty. He's working too hard at being ok, but he seems pleased enough.

 _Intrigued,_ she thinks—she hopes—as she watches him take it in. The way the awning flaps against the stiff, January wind and the twist of the wrought iron railings. He's intrigued.

It's a relief. A huge relief. She doesn't bother to wonder why that might be. Why it's important that she's gotten it right. She steps down the stairs ahead of him and pushes through the door. She ducks too late. The garland of evergreen she wasn't expecting snags at her hair. It snags at the fabric of her coat, and Tiesa, the owner's wife, materializes from behind the bar, fluttering and fussing.

"Oh _Miss_. Your pretty coat!" She wrings gnarled, thick-knuckled hands in dismay. She turns Kate this way and that, brushing needles from her shoulders and muttering. "Kazi—he was supposed to take down the Christmas last week!"

"It's fine. Tiesa! The Christmas is fine." Kate is helpless, hardly able to get a word in edgewise, and even then, the woman ignores her.

She takes Kate by the arms and steps back to appraise her work. Her face brightens, the beauty she must have been coming through. She draws Kate forward into the golden light over the bar.

"Oh, Miss! You are letting your hair grow. _So_ pretty." She seems to notice Castle for the first time. Her eyes widen and she whispers behind her palm. " _He_ thinks so, yes? _Very_ pretty."

 _Underground,_ Kate thinks. She feels flame gather in her cheeks and wonders if there's a lower place. She'd happily die.

But Castle leans in. He winks at Tiesa and Kate watches her fall in love just a little.

"He thinks so." He says it in the old woman's ear, but the slow smile is for Kate. He reaches out to tease the ends of her hair. He lingers for a too-brief moment before he holds up a single, long needle. He twirls it between the pads of his fingers. "Think that's all of them."

The scent pulls her a step closer. The light and the quiet, familiar to her and new to him. She thinks he looks at home here, and her knees are weak in the moment.

 _He's all yours_.

Kyra's words rush through her. They warm her cheeks and stay with her. He smiles like he hears them, too, and she's caught between blushing and not being able to look away.

* * *

"They know you here."

Kate looks up, startled. It's the first thing either of them has said since Tiesa bustled them into a quiet booth and slid a low pair of glasses along the table to them.

"They . . . I come here sometimes."

He looks at her, eager for more. Eager for the story, but she's at a loss.

She looks around. She thinks about what draws her. _Quiet._ It's mostly just that. The low murmur of a TV turned way down, and soft lights. The way the brick rattles and the bottles make music on the shelves when the subway trains rumble nearby. She likes the way the place is never quite empty and the now-and-then hum of words offered to no one in particular. She likes all of that, but he's eager. Expecting something, and she tips over into uncertainty again.

She looks around and everything seems small right now. Too close and too quiet. Everything she can think of seems like not enough.

"There's food . . ." she offers it just to say something. _Anything_ , but it's wrong.

"I don't think. I couldn't . . ." He looks helplessly into the generous pour of liquor as if he might find words there. As if it's on him to provide the evening's entertainment.

Her own hand moves swiftly. Before she can think, she reaches out and stills his fingers where they worry at a knick in the finished wood. Glass meets glass hard enough to splash gold over his knuckles and hers.

"Then we drink," she says and feels a brave, stupid smile spread over her face. She brings the back of her hand to her lips and watches him through her lashes as she sips whisky from her own skin. She feels that certain swell of _something_ all over again at the catch of his breath and the way his pupils flare dark as he watches her watching him.

"We drink," he echoes.

* * *

They do. They drink. More than they should. More than _she_ should with . . . everything.

She's never thought of this place as romantic. It's always been anything but, and that's part of the draw. Where she comes she wants a not-too-quiet drink. Alone, but not lonely. It's how she's always felt here. Until now.

Now, he laughs and she laughs and secluded is the the word that comes to mind. Every thing else is far off. Tiesa comes and goes at discreet intervals and Kate keeps meaning to refuse. She means every time to slide her palm over the mouth of her glass and give the slightest shake of her head. To slow down the pace, at least, but the time keeps slipping away from her. Tiesa comes and goes, and it just slips away as he tries to charm stories out of the old woman.

"This?" He holds up a fresh drink. "This one is Miss's favorite, right?" He leans close and stage whispers. "You can tell me. Wink once for yes, twice for no."

Tiesa swats at him with her apron strings as she goes. "Oh, _You._ "

"You." Kate taps her glass against his. "You're stuck with that now, you realize."

"You?" He looks stricken. "But that's terrible."

"Too late." She hides her grin behind a swallow. "She's capitalized it. Take it from Miss."

"Miss," he says, almost to himself. He looks from her to the bar. Suddenly alert, he looks all around, and sees she's at home here, though he can't quite make sense of it. "Do you hate that?"

"Well it's better than being _You_."

She sees her own grin waver and grow brittle in the amber disc with her fingers curled around it _._ She looks up at him, aghast. He winces. She's quick enough to see it. He's slow enough to let her, but there's nothing hard in the brief flicker of smile he gives her to say it's ok.

"Anything's better than that."

It's quiet, then. Terrible. And . . . intimate. Something about how bare he is before her, even though his eyes are on the table. On the shivering liquid as another train rumbles by on the far side of the brick.

This evening—just these few hours—it's been so many things up 'till now. Tense and crackling. That's more of the same and something new all at once. It's been warm and a little melancholy when memory settles on him again and she touches her glass to his.

It's been romantic. Ridiculous, with Tiesa playing matchmaker. Tiesa assuming. Tiesa thinking he's all hers. It's been so many things, but _intimate_ breaks them both. It fractures and exposes.

"What . . ." Kate falters. She keeps her hands wrapped safely around her drink, well on her side of the table. She makes her voice steady. "What was it like?"

He's surprised. His eyes go wide and his lips part. He tries to hide it in the flick of his wrist as he knocks back what's left in his glass. "Kissing her?"

That's a little hard. There's a sharp new edge, and he isn't quite letting her get away with it. Having Kyra tailed. Asking him outright now. He's not quite letting her, but she's brave with whisky and a secluded little booth in a dark little place where the trains rattle the brick hard enough to make music. She reaches for his glass. She tips in half of what's left in hers and sends it back across the table.

"Having her again." She sips at her drink. Steels herself for it. "The one that got away."

"I didn't," he says slowly. Sadly, but also like he's crafting it. Shaping what to say and how to say it. "She wasn't."

* * *

They struggle into their coats not long after. They bicker over the bill, though it's brief. Her hand falls over his.

"Castle," she says, and it's sharp and fond. She feels like they know each other when the fight goes out of him and he murmurs _Ok._ For just a moment, she feels like she knows what this is between them.

Tiesa insists on fastening the top button of Kate's coat. She tucks Castle's scarf in tighter.

"You," she says with a stern tug on his lapel. " _You_ make sure that Miss keeps warm."

Kate waits for it. Something witty with a little flirt in it—for Tiesa and for her—but he nods and nothing more. He ducks deeper into his collar and his fingers press gently at the small of her back as he guides her to the door. She glances at him over her shoulder, and she thinks it's more than whisky putting color in his cheeks.

* * *

They climb the stairs in silence. The streets are as still as they ever get when cold and night chase the world indoors. She turns to him, bracing herself for some kind of awkward goodbye, but he's ready with something else entirely.

"She's getting married." The words are full of cracks. It hurts him, though his gaze is steady.

"I figured . . ." She doesn't know what more to say.

He smiles and shakes his head. "Tomorrow, I mean. Something small."

"Tomorrow," she repeats dumbly. It's an awful twist inside her. Something small where he won't be able to hide. "She wants you to come."

He nods, stoic even though it's awful. "You, too."

"Me?" She barks out a laugh. "I don't think so."

"She does." He frowns, surprised by her brittle dismissal. "She told to ask. She made a point . . . "

"I'm sure she was just being polite." She looks down the street, worrying about cabs. Wondering how she can get out of this particular moment, but his feet are planted.

"You caught her friend's killer. You cleared her fiancé's name." His brow furrows. Curiosity ignites. He's not going to let it go. "Why wouldn't she want . . ."

Kate cuts in. "She hates me a little bit."

"Oh."

He doesn't deny it. He doesn't contradict, but she thinks he didn't know a moment ago. She wishes he still didn't. The world doesn't need both of them wondering what it means. It really doesn't need that.

The moment goes on too long. Far too long, and she makes herself meet his eyes. He's waiting for it. He draws the moment out with terrible patience, then asks.

"Will you come?"

"Because you need back up?"

It's jittery. Quick and too bright, but the slight inclination of his head and a miserable twist of smile both say _Maybe so._ Maybe it's why he needs her. Still, he presses on. He asks again.

"Will you?"

They're two steps apart. The wind tugs at them both, a gust that leaves the end of his scarf fluttering and she wants to tuck it back in. She wants to lay her palm over his heart and make sure he keeps warm. She doesn't, though. She stands her ground. He stands his, and they both know what she'll say before the words fall between them.

"Pick you up?"

He reaches out, then. He turns up the collar of her coat and pulls it snug against her chin. He holds on long enough that her heart pounds and she thinks he must feel it. He steps back. A sudden jerk of his body away from hers, but he thinks better of it. He leans in and his lips brush somewhere between her temple and her cheek. They're warmer than they should be, or maybe it's her skin. Either way, it's a clumsy kiss. A thank you before he does step back.

"Pick me up," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading.


End file.
